believe it. Saturn, ringed for centuries by

her own shattered moon, nowhere she can look


without seeing it. How often she tries


to will off her own gravity, send the pieces out

into the dark elsewhere. But knows


she can’t or won’t. What becomes

her halo, prayer-wheel, memory laden hula-hoop. Owned

and by. Spell-spun, perpetually dizzy. Some early morning


a neighbour coasts by says looking good sweetheart

and it takes her all she can to look him in the eye and